The forest swallowed them.
The mist hung low to the ground, cold and metallic, the kind that dampens paw-steps but carries scent for miles. The Betas padded low to the ground, muscles still quivering with the aftershocks of frenzy, their throats raw from fighting Rael’s call. The shame coursed through their blood, hot and vile, but Marcus’s orders were colder, sharper—like iron, not fire.
They slowed at the crest of the ridge where the earth had been torn open years ago by an old logging camp. The stink of ash still clung to the bones of the buildings, though no fire had burned in this place for years. The hunters had passed this way before, every wolf in Black Veil knew that much. Piles of rusted chains half-buried in moss still bore stains blacker than rust could stain. Broken winches
